Five Loves for Berwald Oxenstierna
by coeurgryffondor
Summary: From Björn of the ætt Steirnung to Lord Berwald Oxenstierna to Papa, one thing has stayed the same: Sweden loves. / Sweden/OFC, Sweden/Denmark, Sweden/Finland, Sweden/Norway, Papa!Sweden   Sealand. Historically accurate. Author's note inside with more.
1. Urd of Hovgården

Relationships: Sweden/OFC (circa 800), Sweden/Denmark (1000), Sweden/Finland (1500s + 1700s), Sweden/Norway (1800s), Papa!Sweden + Sealand (modern day)

Author's note: 1. Not going to list the human names I use in this because they're shown to change over time, and so I think it's unnecessary in this. I did enjoy picking their pre-Christian names and how it reflects them and how they've changed. That was good fun. But they become the same ones I also use, so don't worry about that.

2. There's a lot of history in each of these chapters, which jump forward in great chunks of time. Basically I only focus on the relationships in the time period listed above. And now I know so much about Swedish history, I love it!

3. I'll be changing the pairing of this story with each chapter that goes up. In the end I might just leave it as Sweden/Norway.

4. It was hard finding solid info on Sweden circa 800 to use, but I tried my best with the relationships and whatnot. Young Berwald is probably now up there with Papa!Berwald in terms of favorites, unsure of what will happen but trusting in his gods.

Enjoy!

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><p><strong>Five Loves for Berwald Oxenstierna<strong>

1. **Urd ****of ****Hovgården**

The first time he sees her they are at the sacred grove at Uppsala, where every tree is hallowed. Björn must have come here a hundreds times already for his ætt's blóts, the sacrifice his clan would make to keep their good fortunes coming and their immortal clan member alive. His clansmen, those who found him centuries ago, are the only ones who know that Björn is different (though others suspect), but they do not yet understand why. Elderly priests have been consulted but no answer is ever given that addresses all the questions. Their gods have not yet revealed why he is different.

The Steirnungs are justly proud of Björn, as large as the bear he was named for. His body is seemingly that of any other sixteen year old svíar, Swede, and yet Björn has already lived nearly two hundred years. The women raised him, passing tales of his childhood down by word of mouth, and would tell him how he had been a lively child in summer, silent in winter. As he aged the men taught him the ways of war, lavishing him with armor fit for the prize they considered him. Where the other ætts found him intimidating, his clan never looked down on him; Björn had never wanted anyone beyond the Steirnungs he called family.

But then he sees her across the grove as he follows behind his family's patriarch. She is the most beautiful Swede he has ever seen, pale skin and long blonde hair, her eyes cast down in humility, her dress modest. He cannot keep his eyes off her, though his adopted brother steps up to follow his father. No joy comes from the sacrifice, which normally fills Björn with pride and fervor; his mind is consumed with thoughts of her.

"Who is that?" he whispers to his step-brother as they part the grove, preparing to return to Birka.

The blond smirks at that, his blue eyes so different from Björn's, gleaming in the sunlight. "You have good taste Brother. That is Urd, the king's niece."

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><p>Urd. Her name plays over and over in his head as he lays in bed. It consumes him as he practices fighting, knocking down his cousins with more force than he had intended because his mind is still on that beautiful Swede, the one who must be kind and loving and all those things the king's women should be.<p>

Urd. His mind is on her as he accompanies his step-brother through the market, and without meaning to his large body brushes against a much smaller one. He turns, quick, to make sure no harm was taken from the act; he still remembers when his family was less prominent, does not want to be the one to bring bad fortune on his clan.

Urd. Her eyes are the most magnificent blue, deep like the sky at night, wide as they look up at him. Her dress is different, still modest but less lavish than that day in the grove. He can feel his breathing hitch as her face looks up into his, a small smile of happiness crossing her face.

"Urd?" He hadn't meant to whisper it aloud. In the distance someone calls to her, another to him.

Urd smiles up at him, wide, before whispering in the most beautiful voice he has ever heard, "Tonight," and with that she is gone. Her word was mischievous, a dangerous glint in her eye, and it excites Björn.

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><p>He does not understand what her word means as he sits before his longhouse. It is small but it is solely his, a reminder to the others in Birka that he is special in so many ways. Most do not understand why, have never noticed how he never ages, because he makes sure to blend in with the crowd, as difficult as that is for a man his size. Björn does not want to be special. He wants to be like his brothers, his cousins, wants to be able to openly flirt with women and marry and become the next patriarch with his own sons, living out his life until it is his time to pass on. He wants to know what there is after this life.<p>

Someone moves in the distance, a cloak fluttering in the cooling air as a body moves from shadow to shadow, coming closer. It hesitates only before his longhouse, hands peaking from under the dark material to shift the hood covering the face. He cannot see who it is but Björn has committed that skin color to memory, moving to allow her entry.

His heart is pounding. He has never done this, never gone beyond coy smiles and pretty words with the friends of his sisters. But in the longhouse Urd is already removing her cloak, walking slowly throughout the space which is lined with the weapons of all the men he has ever defeated. The main Steirnung house has more prizes but these, these are all Björn's.

He's about to ask something that hasn't finished forming in his head when she smiles at him from across the fire pit. His heart skips a beat at that, her eyes soft as she speaks. "They call you Björn." It is a statement.

He nods. "Yes." His voice is breathless.

"I have heard of you," she whispers sweetly, a gentleness to her voice that is all feminine. "Have you heard of me?"

He nods again. "You are the king's niece. Urd." The king lives at Hovgården; Björn has been there many times as his ruler tries to discover what makes this warrior different.

Her lips are teasing him, she must know that, as she lazily circles the fire to stand beside him. "They tell me many things. Should I believe them Björn?"

"I- I-" She smells of grass and flowers, the light casting tantalizing shadows across her face. "I do not know." He has never been one for words, and though it is easy to speak with his family, to speak to others is a daunting task worst than meeting men on the battlefield.

"Björn?" He swallows, nodding his head, and she continues. "Should I be afraid of you?"

That takes him by surprise. "Why would you-"

"Because," and one hand grazes his. Odin!, her skin is so soft on his calloused hand. "They say you are a god among men, whisper it in the night. The servants speak of you when they return from Birka. I had to see you for myself."

"Does- does the king know you-"

"No," she laughs lightly, stepping forward. "I am allowed to do as I like. I am his niece but no longer his blood. He ignores me most days; I am allowed to do as I please. Were I to die tomorrow my death would go unnoticed."

"I- I would notice."

They are the bluest thing he has ever seen, the orange fire reflected in her eyes, as she casts them over his body before resting them on his face. "I know." Before he can even finish repeating the words in his head she has put back on her cloak and left, disappearing once more into the dark.

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><p>She comes to him at night, stealing into his house. She sits opposite him, moving closer and closer as they speak, and it becomes easier to find the words he wishes to give her with each moon. Björn does not try to speak to her in the market, in public; only at night when she seeks him out, leaving as their bodies come close but never touch.<p>

As the days become shorter Björn finds himself drinking with his brother, who is now very much in love and very much drunk. They drink to his brother's love, to their family, to the blessings Björn brings the family. He thinks how nice it must be to be in love, his mind wondering to Urd and his growing attachment to her. When he returns to his own house the object of his affections is already there, waiting on his bed.

A blanket is wrapped about her body, one bare leg hanging from the edge of his bed. Her head comes up as he enters, his body stilling in surprise. There is something desperate in her eyes, something that Björn understands without needing to say a thing. He loves her, he loves her so much, loves her like he has never loved another in the two hundred years he has passed on the isle of Björkö. The words they have shared at night have become romantic, longing. Urd has told him of her life on Hovgården, of the mother she lost so long ago, of her father banished before that. Björn buys her things, pretty things, always little. Some of the things remain in his house with the exquisite dresses she had brought to show him, that she changes into while they talk, changing back to her more-modest clothing before parting. But the rest of his trinkets go back with her to Hovgården; she told him they give her strength when they are apart.

Björn approaches cautiously, allowing his cloak to fall behind him. As he comes closer she stands from the bed and before she even opens the blanket, it too falling to the ground, he knows she is naked. So as he approaches he sheds more clothing, her hands coming out to help pull his chemise over his head. Now they are both naked, cold air lashing cruelly at their skin; they do not let the winter stop them. They have waited too long for this.

With that same glint in her eyes Urd had the first day he met her she lays back down on his bed, her body singing out to him. She is beautiful, eighteen years of living with a king having given her a graceful, slender body. Her thighs are creamy, the sun having never found them. Her breasts are small but perky, her stomach and hips curvy. Never in his dreams had Björn thought she would be so perfect, long blonde hair splaying out over his bed and her shoulders.

He crawls between her legs which part expectantly, noticing how hard he is at the sight of her alone. But he does not want to rush this, leaning over her chest, their bodies not yet touching. One hand reaches out to stroke the side of her face, the other arm holding him steady. When she leans up he comes down to meet her: his first kiss. Her lips are as loving and gentle as she is, becoming more demanding as the kiss goes on, and he does his best to please her, his hand falling from her cheek to run down her neck, fingers grazing further down to find one breast. His member hardens as he feels the soft skin, both young lovers groaning as he plays with the breast experimentally.

They are slow in their actions, exploring each other for the first time. Hands ghost Urd's body, lips following once he becomes comfortable. With each moan that escapes the woman beneath him Björn becomes more brazen, lavishing her breast before crossing her ticklish stomach. He may never have been with a woman but the immortal Swede still knows of sex, has seen drunk lovers outside the hall after a victory, has heard from the older men tales of their sexual conquest. None of that, however, prepared himself for the tightening feeling in his chest, his heart beating faster and faster as her hands entwine in his hair. Without hesitation, he lets instinct guide him in that knowing what it always has, fingering and licking her center, memorizing every spot that draws a reaction. He's more than pleased with himself when her hips start bucking against his mouth, hands steadying her as she screams his name, body trembling beneath him. Not as bad as he'd thought he would be.

Her head is still thrown back, neck exposed, as her back comes down on the bed. Björn cannot help but go for the sweet skin, biting playfully at it, her arms wrapping about him. That's when they roll over, his royal lover leading them now.

"Urd," he gasps into the night as she sits up, straddling him, his erection so close to her center.

"Unna," she whispers.

"What-"

"Unna," and their lips crush together. Because Urd is a goddess, like this woman is to Björn, their goddess of fate and what has been, but Unna is love and so what can be. This woman above him is the two in one, a beautiful embodiment of what was and what will be. The world is theirs.

Warm lips trail over cold skin, her hands teasing at his expansive torso. How many nights did he dream of this? Of her kissing his hard muscle with sweet lips, of her hands trailing lower and lower until ah! she grabs him right where he's always dreamed she would. Björn moves in the assurance that there is some god watching over him, guiding him; Unna moves with that defiance that is all hers, sure in all things she does as her lips trail down the light line of hair on his lower abdomen.

Her breath is warm on his cock, one breast pressing into his thigh. Her eyes are still glinting up at him, a small blush on her face betraying her innocence. What they lack in knowledge they make up for in love, and Unna continues stroking up and down, kissing and licking at his member until he can't take it any more, throwing her on the bed because he can feel himself about to come.

Arms crush their bodies together as her legs wrap around him, Björn thrusting forward haphazardly until there, ah, he's in and she throws her head back in pain and ecstasy. Their lips meet over and over as he thrusts, too desperate now to hold back, and soon Unna is matching him. She's tight, too tight maybe, but she's also warm and inviting as he pushes in, pulling out to repeat the desperate act. The fire crackles behind them as they are consumed by their desire, animalistic instincts guiding them until Unna is crying out, shouting his name over and over. Björn holds out just until she comes, finishing with the resolve he's built up over two hundred years.

They're sweaty and flushed and out of breath and hot and cold all at the same time. For a while he lays on her chest, knowing he's too heavy, but Unna never stops him. "Unna."

"Björn."

"I love you Unna."

"I know Björn. I love you too."

It's the first night she stays with him in his until-now lonely longhouse.

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><p>Only a sudden calling of men away saves Björn from having to ask the king for his niece's hand in marriage, something he's dreaded for months now. But there's something else too, in the back of his mind, that doesn't sit well with him.<p>

She still comes to him at night, sometimes leaving early in the morning, sometimes disappearing from her uncle for days, never leaving Björn's house. No one knows where she goes except Björn and his clan to whom he cannot lie. Their reaction was mixed: the women were ecstatic that he finally found someone to love and care for; the men, rightfully, worried of the king's reaction should he discover where his precious niece had gone to.

The last night before he must leave to help defend their town she rides him, the air electric between them. They've gotten better, Björn with his first lover, Unna with the first one she has kept. It makes him angry to look at her and know someone else touched her first, claimed her, but then she falls into his arms and he remembers that she is all his now. There are no others.

She's two years older than when they started this love affair, but he has aged only several months. How long until she is old, near the end of her life? He will still be young, still be sixteen. Björn doesn't know if his heart can take that.

When he leaves she kisses him sweetly, slipping her thumb ring onto his ring finger. "Come back to me Björn?" she pleads, blue eyes wide. She's scared.

Pulling her to him he crushes their lips together, desperate for some memory to take with him to that foreign land he has never seen but will now fight against. "Forever." And with that, he leaves.

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><p>The town is different when he returns. His clansmen's wives have had their children, babes that their fathers hold for the first time. And though Björn wants to stay with the Steirnungs forever, he has his own woman to return to in his longhouse, more weapons to decorate its walls after over a year away.<p>

She's not there when he returns. Everything is away, clean, though he gets the impression Unna has not been here for a while. He reasons that she must be at her uncle's, no reason to stay in the small longhouse if there is no immortal Swede to share it with. The thought only pushes away some of the anxiety he is beginning to feel as he seeks out her hiding place.

Through the market he walks slowly, eyes searching for some clue. He remembers warmer days where she would throw that long hair over her shoulder, smiling back at him as it glistened like gold. Or the first time her sensitive skin was exposed to the sun as he took her on a boat out on the water, their shouts leaving them forever. Björn remembers her crying that maybe she cannot have children, cannot give him sons, and he remembers kissing away the tears because no, surely that was his doing. Surely in exchange for eternal life he lost the ability to have children but she is all that is important to him.

He's on the other side of the market before one of Unna's cousins steps to him defiantly. "She is not here." His lover had told her cousins of their affair.

Don't panic, he tells himself. "Where is she?" Björn is fighting the urge to shake the stupid woman smiling so coyly at him, stepping forward seductively. But Björn has eyes only for Unna, and so he repeats again, "Where is Urd?"

"She is not here." Delicate hands pull at his shirt. "Forget her Björn. Take me instead." Her dress lacks the modesty of Unna; he can easily see down the front.

Large hands grab hers, seizing them, and she freezes at that, a moment of fear crossing her eyes as he watches. He's getting worked up, knows how intimidating the sight can be, but he hopes that means the stupid woman will give him a straight answer. "Where is Urd?"

"You," the woman whispers, shaking her head. "You immortal being. Did you think it would end any other way?" And she pulls herself free of him.

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><p>She must have prayed for months to give Björn a son. If he had known he would have returned sooner, but no word had come, no word ever given to his clan to send to him. Unna had died, the midwife assured him, before she knew her son was a stillborn. Björn's name was the last thing she'd said.<p>

He swore he would never love another; it wasn't worth it.


	2. Ketill of Danmǫrk

Author's note: Oh to be young and pagan. I do love Denmark so much, but history hasn't given him easy relations with the other Nords for very long and he's such a contrast to Su and Nor. I think this chapter really lays out how, in my headcanon, their relationships started, compared to what it becomes in the next chapter. Or next 1000 years.

I tried my best to research northern thoughts on sex at the time but couldn't find much (plus my computer hates the things I research at this point, you have no idea what I now know), so I wrote the best I could to how beloved Sweden would have thought of sex between men. Whole changing world and all, you know. I state this only so you remember that his thoughts make sense in the historical period. Clearly he'll think different things later on. ;D

Also learned lots and lots about the Scandinavian countries circa 1000 CE so if you're interested as to an illusion made here let me know and I'll reply with some specifics. More unions were found to write about! I cannot friggin wait! And fyi from this point on Norway shows up whenever he wants because he can. And because he's fun to write.

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><p><strong>Five Loves for Berwald Oxenstierna<strong>

2. **Ketill ****of ****Danmǫrk**

In an effort to keep power his ætt had told the new king of Björn's seeming immortality. While his secret was revealed against his will, the Swede had gone willingly on this last voyage, knowing it would help his clan to continue to prosper. And Olof Skötkonung, the first king of Svealand and Götaland, had treated him fair enough. When he had suggested the trip his reasoning was sound and so the immortal bear, who had never left his beloved Mälaren Valley for longer than two years, found himself now in his fourth year in this foreign land.

Here Sweyn, king of the Danes, had introduced him to his own immortal, a young and lively Viking by the name of Ketill. Some days Björn appreciates the company, the camaraderie that comes from being two fixed points in a world of death and destruction. Other days he wants to kill the annoying man.

But on days like these, spent sitting by the harbor, the sun warm as the summer presses on, Björn is content with his companion. Well, maybe more than content as Ketill leans into him, Björn shifting to wrap one arm around the slightly-smaller man's shoulders. The sun isn't the only thing warming him.

"They say we will go to battle," Ketill comments. Björn grunts in response, too tired to try and say much. "Against those who try to unite in the north. My king says yours will fight with us. Will you fight with me?"

"Of course." Björn has never been one to shy from battle.

Blue eyes look up at him, and after a while he can no longer ignore them, looking down at the Dane who is now smiling stupidly at him. "Björn," he murmurs, and there's something there that Björn both wants and despises.

Trying desperately to find something to say, afraid of why his heart is beating so fast, the Swede says, "I hear they have an immortal as well, in Nóregr. Do you know of him?" Here, in the Danes' land, they have their theories as to why people like Björn and Ketill never age. They have part of the answer, more than his family has ever found, but the question is still there for him.

"I have seen him," Ketill murmurs, his head under Björn's chin, "at a distance. He is very beautiful, like a woman. I would like very much for him to be my property, such a pretty thing. I would never tire of him."

Björn's mouth betrays his heart, the Swede asking, "Do you want him, more than you want me?" Ketill sits up at that, his face changing to one of concern and seriousness. He strokes the side of his fellow warrior's face, fingers lingering, before wrapping his arms about Björn's chest. Björn can do nothing but reciprocate, his arms around his sole friend's shoulders, inhaling deeply the smell of his Danish hair. Having already said too much he sees no harm in continuing. "I do not want you to want him more than me. Please don't tire of me."

They are both physical beings, and though perhaps Ketill could have found words to soothe Björn's worries, his actual actions suffice: their eyes are locked on each other's until the last moment, when their lips meet, muscles moving together. Then they meet again, something growing in their eagerness, Ketill's arms removing themselves from around that torso to instead run his hands up and down it. Björn pulls him even closer, tilting the Dane's head back for better access to that mouth that is warm and inviting and it's been too long for Björn to deny himself this any more, not when Ketill too is immortal.

Both men are breathless, watching the other pant, when they break the kiss. Ketill smiles, speaking first. "Stay with me tonight?"

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><p>Against his chest Ketill's back shifts. Their chemises are forgotten somewhere on the floor, just as they are most nights in their fits of passion and kisses and bare skin to explore.<p>

Not that they've ever- and Björn pushes the thought away. No, they've never done that. They're men, and though they kiss and touch and lick and rub, they've never done that, because he loves Ketill too much. Sometimes he can tell the Dane wants to try, because he's never done it with a man; most of those times the Dane is drunk. Björn knows a sober Ketill would never want to be the receiving partner, that they are both too dominant and that to finally consummate whatever it is they have would mean one of them is dominant and one is submissive. Björn has no intention of being the submissive partner; were they to, hmm, have sex, he is aware that he would probably win the dominant role. But that would mean Ketill would be the submissive partner and he just can't do that. Something in him, the ideals he's attached to his strong Danish immortal, hold him back from that.

Because they are equals.

And he loves Ketill.

And he knows he would not be gentle with a man like this.

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><p>The alcohol is flowing once more, a harsh storm raging outside. Ketill is, unsurprisingly, drunk off his ass as he lays on his bed. While he continuously rolls off it, hitting the floor with a loud thump, Björn had figured it is still better than having him be the one lounging on the fur before the fireplace. No point letting the Dane light himself on fire. Again.<p>

"You!" Ketill shouts, slurring his Norse. "You!" he shouts again, pointing at Björn who smiles lopsidedly, deciding to play along.

"Me? What about me?"

"You! You are-" and he hiccups before finishing with some vague gesture that involves sliding his hand down his chest, under his pants, to grab his cock before falling off the bed and slapping his ass suggestively.

"Am I?" Björn replies lazily. This is both amusing and normal, a perfect example of what any given day spent with his Danish love is like.

"But you! You won't fuck me Björn! Why won't you fuck me?"

"Because," he starts slowly, the sight of Ketill crawling on hands and knees to him stiffening his cock, "you are drunk. And I am not that cruel."

"Want you!" and he grabs the front of Björn's shirt haphazardly, pulling the Swede down with him to tangle their limbs together before the roaring fire, lips and teeth gnashing and fighting before Björn finds himself on top, looking down at his Ketill. He strokes the side of his face lovingly.

"Perhaps it is time for bed?"

"No!" the Dane shouts. "I am the king, I do not go to bed!"

"You are the king?" he teases, his lips falling to Ketill's ear as he rubs their groins together. "What are you king of? Tell me, for I want to be your subject."

The man beneath him laughs, his whole body shaking with the beautiful sound, before he kisses the Swede passionately. "I am king of the immortal beings! I can have any being I want!"

"And which do you want now?" Ketill's face betrays his sudden confusion at being asked a question before changing, pleasingly, to one of sexual desire.

"You. Only you. I want you Björn."

Their lips meet in another crushing kiss, Björn pressing down onto the man beneath him because he knows he can take the weight, likes the friction it creates when the Dane thrusts up against him. He tastes like alcohol, smells like it too, and it's a scent that now always reminds Björn of his first immortal love.

Which tends to remind him of his first mortal love.

Ketill's eyes are closed, his mouth open, but Björn's heart just isn't in it anymore as his mind drifts back to those earlier days. The moment is lost.

"Not tonight Ketill," Björn sighs, kissing at his lover's neck before making to stand to help them both return to the large bed.

Eyes snap up to look at him and maybe Ketill's not as drunk as he thought he was. "Why? You always do this, I want to know why!" The Swede is about to ask what he means when he sits up, Ketill's face hardening as he continues. "Who was he? Huh? You still love him, I know you do! What did he do that I do not? I bet you never loved him the way you love me! I am better than all the other-"

That's when something in Björn snaps, the Swede launching himself at the Dane who puts up a good fight but is simply not as strong or large as the angered immortal. Björn's done playing nice, done listening to Ketill blabber on as if he knows what it's like to still love someone who died two hundred years ago. Ketill doesn't love anyone but himself, no matter what Björn's tried to convince himself. Ketill will always love himself the most, and Björn hates him because he loves him despite that selfishness. He loves Ketill for Ketill, but the stupid fucking Dane cannot just love Björn for Björn.

Large hands flip the man, yanking down his pants. He tries to escape those hands but Björn's lost it, his grip tight as he frees himself from his own pants. "You want sex?" he growls, low, leaning over Ketill's back to whisper in his ear. The Dane stills, nodding, and he notices that he's holding his breath beneath the Swedish body holding him captive, pressing into it. "Fine. Learn to shut up Ketill."

You don't know anything, his head screams over and over as he pounds into the Dane who does nothing to resist, whimpering and moaning beneath him. It's nothing like the love he used to make with Unna, slow and gentle and loving. Björn takes and takes, not caring what Ketill is feeling, his head screaming over and over that it's all Björn's fault, he should have done something more, he could have saved her. You don't know anything Ketill! You don't know anything!

* * *

><p>In the morning there is nothing but regret and an empty bed, the fire having gone out. Björn's never wanted so much to crawl into the harsh snow and die, except maybe for the day he lost Unna.<p>

The next night Björn returns to his own room, not wanting to intrude on Ketill. He does not seek out the one he was once so gentle with, instead silently berating himself in the dark of night. He shouldn't have done that, he shouldn't have lost control. He is not an animal, Ketill did not deserve that. It was his first time, Björn knew it was his first time, and he paid Ketill no attention. Didn't prepare him. Didn't bother to notice if he came.

As September comes they set off for battle, Björn trying desperately to avoid contact with Ketill. He's sure the Dane is doing this on purpose, trying to fill him with more guilt, by standing closer and closer to him, shouting to him. Can't he see what the Swede is going through without his added taunts and jeers? He just wants to be forgotten, lost in time, like the woman he had once loved so much.

* * *

><p>When he comes to it takes several minutes to figure out where he is, his last memory having been killing the man he had been fighting in hand-to-hand combat on an enemy's ship. The room becomes familiar as he blinks; Ketill's room, and he's in his bed. But the small man leaning over him, tending him, is unfamiliar. He's pale and blonde and wearing a face of utter disgust and contempt, wiping at Björn's face with a cloth.<p>

"Who-" Björn starts, but then a voice rings out from beside the crackling fire.

"Finally come back to join us?" Ketill jokes lightly. "Took you long enough Swede." At the word the new man both flinches and sneers.

"Ketill?" Björn manages, realizing how dry his throat is. "What happened?"

"Well," the Dane starts joyously, bounding over to sit beside Björn. The third man moves, going to sit on the floor and stare at the wall. "When you finished killing that man during the battle, you were shot in the head with an arrow, and then someone stabbed you from behind. It was quite impressive." His eyes are happy, playful. Immediately it makes Björn feel all his guilt again for what he did to the jovial man. Seeming to sense this, the Dane swallows and smiles sheepishly. "Björn," he whispers, leaning down so that their faces are next to each other, "stop. That night, it was not your fault. You did nothing wrong."

"Yes I did."

"No," then he leans down and kisses the Swede more gently than he deserves, holding the side of his face as he deepens the kiss, beginning to pant. "I riled you up, I knew what I was doing. You need to forgive yourself, because I miss you. I love you," he whispers low into Björn's ear, and something in his chest tightens in response to those words and the truth in them. He's never said it to Björn before.

"I love you too," is all he can manage in response, winning another kiss.

"Good, because now we have a new play thing!" Ketill settles in, moving over Björn's body to lay beside him. "Is he not as beautiful as I told you he was? And now he is all ours dearest, Swedish Björn."

Björn lets his head fall to the side, Danish kisses warming his neck. The man is small, much smaller than Ketill and Björn, but now he can see it, something about him that says he is immortal. His hair is lighter than theirs, his eyes darker. His skin is like snow, seemingly unknown to the sun that gives them life. He's eyeing them suspiciously, his face blank, but Björn can tell there's fear underlying his expression, along with something else. It somehow excites Björn.

"So beautiful," he murmurs in agreement, Ketill's hands on his chest.

* * *

><p>Now this new religion is spreading farther than it ever has in their land, with more converts each day. Björn puts little stock in it, feeling nothing but contempt as he watches the procession before him. "Are you one of them?" he grunts, watching Christians make their way to church. Such stupid people.<p>

"Yes," the Norwegian replies. For years he has only given one word replies to the Swede, though it's still better than the silence he only ever gives the Dane.

"And is your new god better than the old ones?" He lets his head roll to one side, lazily eyeing the man sitting beside him. He'd like to think that he treats the prisoner better than Ketill does. Ketill takes what he wants greedily from the Norwegian, and though Björn tells him to stop it is only ever done half-heartily; it's quite impossible to stop Ketill once he gets an idea in that thick skull of his. But Björn has never done those things to the Norwegian because something about him draws the Swede to him, something he can almost relate to.

"Yes." Indigo eyes are still trained forward.

"You have a new name then?"

"Yes."

"What was your old one?"

The man blinks, looking down at his hands, before up at Björn curiously. He does this, every once and a while, betrays some emotion in his face. But only for Björn, he's noticed, only the Swede gets to see any expression. Slowly, as if trying to recall something long forgotten, he whispers, "Leifr."

"And your new one?"

At that there is no hesitation. "Lukas."

Björn looks out over the harsh landscape, the sea so close, the smell of salt water filling his nostrils. He considers the two names, rolling them around in his mind, before making his decision. "Lukas is a much better name."

"Is it?" Immediately the Norwegian looks away as if disgusted with himself. Those were two words, the longest response he has ever given.

"Yes," Björn murmurs, not wanting to tease the man for his slip-up. "Lukas is a beautiful name for a beautiful man, like you. It suits you more."

Their eyes meet, lock in some silent battle for a long time. Then the one named Lukas leans up, his hands resting on one of Björn's thighs as his face draws close to Björn's. A wave crashes against the nearby cliffs.

"Do you know what my new god does to men like you?"

"Pagans?" Björn quips, leaning down to call the man's bluff. But Lukas only scoffs, his eyes narrowing in frustration, and Björn's mind turns to find the correct answer if that is not what he had meant by his question. "What do you-"

"Ask him," Lukas says. "Ask your precious Ketill. He knows now."

* * *

><p>Their naked bodies lay together under a blanket, soft fur beneath them, the fire roaring beside them. Ketill's breathing is slowing down as he drifts to sleep, but Lukas's words will not stop ringing in Björn's mind. There was something more to them, something Björn didn't miss, that second meaning.<p>

"What does the Christian god do to men like us Ketill?" Sleepily the Dane turns over in his arms, bringing them face to face. Shadows play across his body as Björn takes in the sight, his heart beating quickly in love and lust.

Ketill sneers for a moment before asking, "What did Lukas say?"

It's almost like confirmation of what Björn had been dreading. "So you are one of them? You are Christian now?" How could he have not noticed?

"Not yet," Ketill whispers. "But soon, yes." His expression is hard to read at that, though his tone is almost daring. He should have seen it coming.

There's a few minutes of silence before Björn asks, "Will you change your name too Ketill? Will you no longer be mine?" In his curiosity Björn had gone to the church, reading what scripture the priest there had had. He had known the answer to the question before he'd asked, knew Lukas had meant that they were sodomites. It made him hate this new religion more, because what he feels for Ketill is surely the purest, most perfect thing there is. How could it be wrong?

There's a soft smile, Danish lips stealing his for a moment, before Ketill answers his questions. "Yes I will change my name, but I will still be your Dane Björn. I will forever be your Dane, forever your Christian. Forever yours," and he punctuates those two words with a kiss each.

"Forever mine," Björn growls, rolling them over to feed their lust. Ketill meets him willingly as they let the night consume them.

* * *

><p>He couldn't bring himself to leave his homeland to watch Ketill be baptized. Instead news came in a letter written by his former lover that Björn can no longer pass each night with, a sea between their countries. Christen, the letter says his new name is, because he had promised to be his Christian.<p>

They had promised each other forever.


	3. Timo Väinämöinen

Author's note: Compare the relationships from five years previous to where we are starting off now; it's amazing how much they've changed.

I'll also point out the points where Sweden comments that he and Norway have done the same things Denmark is doing now. Because this is from Sweden's POV Denmark comes off the worst, but Sweden is very much aware that he and Norway are no better and would have been just as dickish were they the leads in the Kalmar Union. Countries have got to survive, no matter the cost.

But Finland is forever sweet like sugar. Easy to see why Sweden finds him endearing. Not easy to see why Finland doesn't just have sex constantly with him.

* * *

><p><strong>Five Loves for Berwald Oxenstierna<strong>

3. **Timo ****Väinämöinen**

In this cold castle, so unlike the warm wooden structures that housed him when he last lived in Denmark, Berwald watches his young ward grow from a quiet boy to a handsome teenager. It doesn't stop him from hating what the Kalmar Union is doing to them.

Not that it's quite so terrible for Timo, who is mainly insulated by nature of his land belonging to Sweden. It's Berwald that bears the brunt of it, the beatings, the lashings. Christen's only become harsher over time with each day that he realizes how much of Berwald's heart belongs to Timo; it's not uncommon for him to catch the Dane screaming, "You promised me forever!", as he whips him. The guilt stings worse than the whip.

He had promised forever. But then he'd returned to what is now called Sweden, had gone on the Second Swedish Crusade and been there when they found a small boy bleeding too much to possibly survive. The soldiers had brought him to Berwald when the boy didn't die during the night, and the eldest Swede had recognized immediately who this must be. Just like Christen, just like Lukas, just like Berwald: he was an immortal.

And now they understand why they are immortal, because they are countries incarnate. So many more they've found, met along the way, but the Nordic countries have only each other to depend on (as much as they can do that). Let the others fight amongst themselves; the five most northern immortals have always preferred each other's company.

Lukas has Emil, nearly as small and young as a child. And Berwald has Timo, growing too quickly, losing too much innocence. And Christen has his thirst for power over them, his lust consuming him like a burning fever. The balance is there, between the countries, but Berwald knew it was strained from the start.

* * *

><p>The three largest nations meet regularly, Lukas and Berwald left to voice the concerns of their young wards against Christen's annoyance and protests. The Swede is starting to get the impression that after he left Lukas took his place in Christen's heart, and so now the Norwegian is as much detested as he is for finding another to give his love to. Party of him even pities his oldest friend for it.<p>

Yet Lukas does not love Emil the way Berwald loves Timo. Each day he can feel it slowly growing, aware of it after the centuries of watching the boy grow to the handsome teenager he is. He's a bit clumsy with a sword, a bit clumsy with his actions, but there is something to him that Berwald cannot deny. He is endearing in all he does to his Swedish lord.

Berwald wishes he could be so easy to deal with for Timo, yet he is, despite his best efforts, quite the opposite. After decades away those Swedish people, unseen to Berwald for so long, are slowly beginning to rebel against the union. Everything he knows of what is going on comes from the meetings of the three nations and from correspondence that is filtered through Christen's secretary. Sometimes he goes weeks without a letter, knowing that it was probably instead delivered to Christen, who burned it without a second thought. Not that he can blame him; Berwald has done the same thing with letters addressed to Timo.

* * *

><p>He's walking down the hall, intent on seeking out a book to read while Lukas is away; Timo is rarely good company in the evening, too scared to say anything. So instead he allows the Finn to hide in his room, and Berwald becomes lost in his thoughts of what book to pick when suddenly he is stopped by Christen.<p>

"You used to love me," he starts in immediately, grabbing the front of Berwald's shirt. "We used to be so in love Berwald, and now your people are rebelling against us, against me." In his free hand he's holding a crumpled up piece of paper, the seal indicating that the letter is Swedish; it is probably yet another letter the nation will never read, the cause of this sudden confrontation.

Calmly Berwald takes the hand in his, removing it from his clothing. "Those are two separate things," he states flatly, and though Christen's face is still as angry and wild he can see in those Danish eyes a moment of confusion. What Berwald felt for Christen, though greatly calmed, is still there; it is completely separate from what his people do or feel.

"I'm done holding back," the Dane growls. Berwald is about to make a comment about how surely Christen has not been holding back in his beatings of the Swede, which are terrible and violent and painful even for a strong man like himself. But there's a sudden sound as that anger he could just never control takes over Christen and it all goes black as the Swedish body hits the ground, the large Nord never delivering his snarky comment.

* * *

><p>In the dark of early morning he groans. His throat is dry, his body sore, his head pounding. Berwald can tell he's in his own bed by the way it gives under his body, but there's something amiss that he cannot place. He tries to open his eyes but can't see; he needs glasses now, from all the beatings. A hand comes to Berwald's chest to calm his breathing, quickly beginning to pick up in panic.<p>

"Please," a small voice pleads, a voice that's changed and lowered but is still high-pitched for a man. "Please, don't move. You'll hurt yourself if you do sir."

Mornings like these are the worst: not because he'll be stuck in bed for days, his body healing from whatever Christen did to him, but because it's Timo by his side. More mornings than not it's been Lukas, who is older and knows more of Berwald. He'd seen the man naked before, he's been with another man, he is- in a way- more of Berwald's equal. But dear, naïve, young Timo, when he's the one here Berwald feels awful. His voice is so weak and the Swede hates when Timo's the one stuck doing this; it's becoming more common for the Finn to be the one treating him, but that doesn't make it fair. Timo is sweet, innocent. He's never even kissed another, never seen someone naked, and already he must know Berwald's body too well, learned so much about the cruelty the three former Vikings are capable of, the abuses they can deliver time and again.

Berwald wishes he could give his ward a better life than this.

Timo stutters for a moment on the B sound before finally whispering, "Berwald," into the quiet room. There's a shifting beside him as Timo lays his head on the Swedish chest, his arms wrapping awkwardly around the much larger body. There's a wetness on his chest and a shaking in the small man; he can't see it, but Berwald knows he's crying. Timo only ever uses his proper name in moments like these, when he's upset and vulnerable and Berwald remembers just how young the Finn is.

"Berwald," he moans again, the sound becoming more perfected with each time he says it. Normally he calls the Swede "Lord Oxenstierna" to show respect, just like how he addresses Lukas as "Lord Bondevik" and Christen as "Lord Densen". Timo is perfectly allowed to call him by his Christian name in private but rarely does, shy but polite nation he is.

The Swedish nation wants to comfort him, wants to whisper gentle words and hold him to his chest. He wants to assure Timo that this will pass, tell him stories of when it was different, better. Remind him of how happy Christen was when they all first came here, remind him of the Christen Berwald grew up with. But he can't, and it's not just the physical pain holding him back on that; each time he falls in love Berwald's heart is left with a hole where the previous lover had once been. He loves his ward, but that love carries a guilt for what it means to the one he once called his best friend, that exquisite torture he gives Christen.

* * *

><p>Timo is sitting at the end of his bed, his head bowed down, as Lukas leans in close to whisper with Berwald. Enough strength has come back for him to sit up, and upon returning Lukas had come to assist Timo in caring for Berwald.<p>

"You do not have to stay," Lukas had informed the Finn coldly. "I can care for him now." The Norwegian is still suspicious of the Swede's ward.

"That- that's ok," the smaller man had managed under the harsh glare. "I- I- I don't mind." If it wouldn't've hurt so much, Berwald would have smiled at that small statement. They've made progress, for Timo to have said that.

Lukas sighs, resting his forehead against one of Berwald's cheeks. Lukas has always been someone he can be honest with, their secrets safe. The Norwegian gives his honest opinion always, helping the Swede to weigh out his decisions without bias, in a way that Christen never could and that Timo isn't ready for.

"And he will go with you? Willingly?" the man whispers against his neck, lips brushing skin. Berwald's eyes flick up to find Timo watching them, and upon being caught Timo's gaze drops again, his cheeks blushing profusely.

"Timo?" Berwald asks quietly. Immediately the boy panics.

"I- I'm sorry! I didn't mean to-" He stops when the Swede shakes his head. Lukas sits up a little, glaring between them, but while it bothers Timo that look long ago stopped affecting Berwald, who carries on.

"Timo, if I left-" and he pauses to repeat, "if I left," and Timo nods at the full implication of those words, "would you come with me?"

The quiet moment grows, no one saying anything. The Finn's eyes have nearly doubled in size, darting around in their sockets as he thinks.

"You do not have to," Berwald says quietly. Maybe that last statement was a lie, maybe his government would not let him leave the boy behind, but he means it. Finland may not have freedom from Sweden, but Timo is not Berwald's prisoner. He can't treat him like property, like the Nords used to treat each other.

The older men watch the boy swallow, nodding that he would come, which answers Lukas's original question. "Then I agree with you," Lukas whispers, standing. Timo looks between them, as if asking what just happened, but Berwald raises a hand to stop the question from coming. The Norwegian kisses his cheek, nods his head once to Timo, and leaves.

"What-" Timo scrambles to fill the unoccupied expanse of bed beside Berwald now. "What just happened, Be- Berwald?"

Berwald shakes his head. "Not yet Timo," he says simply. When he does not elaborate Timo seems suspicious, but there are details to still work out. Plans to be made. The Finn to worry about. He strokes one cheek greedily, longingly.

* * *

><p>In the dead of night Berwald steals into his ward's room, gently waking him. "We are leaving," he whispers softly, and Timo tenses before relaxing, nodding in understanding of what those few words mean. He watches the Finn rise, silently dressing behind his back. Berwald takes in the moon, high in the sky, until Timo clears his throat to signal that the Swede may now turn around.<p>

"Ready," he says almost happily, but there is fear in that voice, in those big beautiful eyes. Berwald steps to him, slowly, and the body starts to shake. He's not sure if it's in fear or anticipation, because of what they are about to do or what Berwald is doing now. But he comes to stand before the young boy, taking both sides of his face in hands, and bends down to look him in the eye.

Timo's breathing is already shallow when Berwald whispers, "You know I love you Timo." It is not a question; it is a statement. And the Finn only nods in understanding before licking his lips, all the signal his Swedish protector needs.

Those lips are sweet beneath his own, gentle, unpracticed. Berwald's body screams to consume the boy but he still remembers his first kiss, remembers each moment of it in his winter bed so long again, so he ignores his body in favor of doing right by the memory Timo will carry with him as they leave this place; Berwald will not repeat the mistakes he made with Christen on Timo. So he holds the Finn to his large body lovingly, caressing him, until he can tell Timo is out of breath and so breaks their first kiss. Their foreheads press together, Timo's eyes still closed in shock and awe and trying to process what had just happened.

Berwald had waited so long for that. God he loves this man, would do anything for him, and that's why they're doing this now, escaping into the night. He cannot salvage his relationship with Christen; maybe in a few centuries they can talk again, but not now, not like this in this failed union. Timo is something Berwald has yet to mess up, and that's why they're leaving.

* * *

><p>Each house they live in back in Stockholm is built with two special rooms for Berwald and his ward, bedrooms beside each other because he does not want Timo too far from him. The architecture changes, yet the rooms remain the same.<p>

But the Finnish man is still afraid of him, he can tell. They haven't really talked since they left, since Berwald kissed him. Most days Timo shakes in his presence; he's so much more peaceful when he thinks he's alone, out in the garden where Berwald can watch him unseen. He's happy there, serene, and Berwald wants to share in that with him, but the Swede has work to attend to and wars to wage and the throat of someone he once loved to try and slit.

So Berwald's surprised one night when there's a knock at his bedroom door. He had retired with a bottle of wine from Bonnefoy and a book from Lukas on his once-ætt the Steirnungs, who have become the powerful Oxenstierna family he still calls his own. Though Sweden is still a vast kingdom, its powers have started to diminish since their great empire had reigned unchallenged; Berwald worries for what would happen if Sweden was to lose Finland. The knock brings him from that train of thought and for a moment he thinks he must have imagined it.

There's another knock before Berwald calls out, "Come in Timo."

In the flickering candlelight he looks so pale, thin as if he has not been fed enough. Berwald gives Timo everything he could ever want, and yet the boy takes very little, normally keeping to himself and watching his lord from afar. The Swede does not know what more to do to bring the boy from his shell.

"Berwald?" Timo asks quietly, stepping towards his lord before the great fire place. The older man nods for Timo to sit on the plush carpet, to make himself comfortable, but instead the Finn continues walking closer until he is standing between his out-stretched legs. Berwald is confused, to say the least.

"Do you need something Timo?" he asks cautiously, but the boy shakes his head, taking a deep breath.

"Can I ask you something? I want you to answer honestly, the way you answer Lord Bondevik." The Swede nods; Timo is no longer the little boy he first met in the thirteenth-century, five hundred years having changed both of them. If he wants an honest answer, Berwald must try his best. He is no longer a child.

"Whatever you want Timo, you know I would never deny you anything." The Finn nods in understanding before licking his lips and it transports Berwald back to that intimate moment, the first kiss they had shared. His heart begins to race.

In the quiet a voice asks, "Do you still love me Berwald?" Timo's eyes are on the floor but the firelight betrays the blush growing on his cheeks.

One hand reaches out, stroking the sweet skin. "Timo?" Berwald asks breathlessly, and the Finn looks up to meet his gaze finally. "Timo, my feelings for you are as strong as ever. You are my everything Timo, I only wish to make you happy." They have always been like this, Berwald honest, Timo blushing. Their relationship has been constant these five centuries. The larger man feels no shame in so freely admitting his feelings to the ward he would do anything for.

There's a rustle of clothing as Timo fidgets before he leans forward, over Berwald's body, to press soft lips to that surprised Swedish mouth. But as the kiss deepens, Berwald letting his ward set the pace, the Finn relaxes. After several minutes he wraps his arms around Berwald's neck, settling over his lap on the chair. Experimentally the Swede wraps his arms about Timo's waist, pulling their bodies close. The Finn's mewl of approval drives him crazy.

"Tim-" Berwald starts; he cannot stop himself if the smaller man keeps this up. Berwald is not as innocent as him, and it has been too long since he has been with another. He needs Timo, he always has. Prostitutes no longer suffice.

"Don't," the Finn says against his lips. "Don't stop. I want you." And then they kiss again, more needfully, before Timo says what Berwald has always dreamed of hearing. "I love you Berwald. Please, love me like I love you."

* * *

><p>They finish the bottle of wine, both needing to forget that little voice telling them to stop and think, to be shy or nervous or cautious. Timo's Swedish has become slurred, Finnish mixing in so that Berwald has to concentrate to understand him. Under the warm sheets his mouth runs over every part of Finnish skin as it is exposed, Timo moaning above him. Every touch draws a reaction until he is naked and Berwald indulges in stroking and sucking his hard member, his ward screaming above him, hands pulling painfully in his hair. But he never relents, wants Timo to only have the best experience to remember him by regardless of what might come to be. Berwald swallows when Timo comes.<p>

Those Finnish hands are unpracticed as they pull at Berwald's clothing, and so his hands assist until he is being pushed to his back, Timo climbing over him. He's blushing but Berwald encourages him, directing him gently until the Finn is touching and kissing his hard chest, stroking his large member just until Berwald is about to come. In the dead of night, their breathing labored, Timo whispers, "How do we-", but Berwald cuts off the words, knowing what he is asking.

"Relax," the Swede whispers, pulling Timo to his chest, Finnish head buried in his neck. "It might hurt a little-" Timo nods "-but I will make it better. Trust me."

"I always have." There's a yelp as he prepares the young man, and after that he allows Timo to go at his own pace, sitting atop Berwald. His eyes roll back as his ward lowers himself more and more until he tells Berwald to move and they go slowly, Timo clutching at his chest. This time it's forever, Berwald promises himself as his lover screams out, this time for Berwald is the last time he is giving his heart away, and this time it will be forever as he comes, groaning contently.

"I love you Timo," he whispers, and the Finn kisses him at that.

"I love you too Berwald." This time is forever. All the mistakes he's made in the past are forgotten. Timo is perfect and their love is perfect and this time, this time Berwald means it.


	4. Lukas Bondevik

Author's note: Why yes this is my favorite pairing; there are no regrets, just SuNor.

I don't know, just writing them, these two work so wonderfully together. Their characters are just fantastically complex when compared to the others, in terms of what's going on in their head versus what they're showing. While I'm sad I didn't get to write Emil because of the way history went and thus that must have upset Lukas, at least you can compare all Berwald's other lovers to this chapter and I think see why I love SuNor the most.

* * *

><p><strong>Five Loves for Berwald Oxenstierna<strong>

4. **Lukas ****Bondevik**

He's the easiest to love, the easiest to talk to. The easiest to be mental with, to be physical with. Berwald finds Lukas to be the easiest of his lovers. But that doesn't make him the one he's loved the most.

"Stop it," Lukas berates, using his one shoulder to hit the Swede in the chest.

"Or what?" he whispers seductively into the Norwegian nation's ear, pulling him tighter against his chest. Their bodies are still sweaty from their night of sex, the fire roaring behind them. Every night has been like this, since the union. Discussions. Sex. Teasing. More sex. The freedom to be themselves without fear.

"Or I'll be the big spoon," the smaller man manages defiantly, wiggling against his chest. It's become a running joke, one that Berwald always laughs at and that Lukas always hides his amusement over: Lukas being the one holding Berwald. Sometimes the Norwegian tries to get the Swede drunk, climbing in behind him in bed. Sometimes he attacks him as if this was war; one night Berwald woke up tied to the bed. While Berwald always treats Lukas as his equal, he is never allowed to be the big spoon, simply because it annoys his newest lover and that amuses him.

"As if you could be." He kisses at the base of Lukas's neck, where the sensitive skin becomes pale collarbone, and the mood grows serious once more, sensual. The man beneath him moans, shifting to allow Berwald better access, and he nips more until his Norwegian lover rolls under him. The night is still young, and Berwald's work tomorrow will start late in the day.

"You need to stop," Lukas mutters between kisses, and Berwald knows the comment is meant to continue what had started the conversation. The Swede tries to deepen the kiss but a hand on his chest pushes him back to look at his lover. "You still think of him, when you lay with me. I don't like it."

He sighs. Sometimes he does, his mind slipping back to nights spent with Timo. He moved house after his Finnish ward left, because it hurt too much to remain there. There had only been a few nights of passion and sex, though Timo did stay with him in his bed. When Berwald holds Lukas to his chest he can almost imagine he's Timo, who smelled of sugar and grass and smiled in his sleep.

"Like right now," Lukas's voice interrupts, and Berwald blinks, groaning as he leans forward to press their foreheads together.

"Forgive me?" Lips brush once against the other's.

"Always, beloved." Their lips brush again.

"Do you ever-" Berwald looks into the fire for a moment, phrasing the sentence before delivering it. They talk openly of Berwald's past relationship with Timo, of how much Lukas misses his brother. They speak of all the things they have lived through with the sole exception being the one nation who has shaped them both so much. "Do you ever miss Christe-"

"No." The answer cuts him off before he can finish saying the name.

"Never?" Even Berwald misses Christen on long summer days where the air smells of the sea and he can remember laying in tall grass with his best friend.

"You," Lukas starts, slowly. There's a pause where he looks at the ceiling and Berwald lays beside him, stroking his side in the interlude. "You had an equal relationship with Christen, before me. And you had his respect, even for a short while. I never had those things; from the beginning I was conquered land."

"He loved you," Berwald offers half-heartily.

"Yes. But he also controlled me and abused me and I think I hate him."

"You think?" Rarely is Lukas's world anything beyond black and white. As deep indigo eyes meet his, Berwald's mind flashes through a thousand years since his first lover, since Christen and Timo. Lukas has always been there, since that great battle. There was always something to Lukas that spoke to Berwald on a different level, something that let him ask Lukas questions he asked no other, speak with him in an open and honest way. Berwald loves to discuss, to debate, and Lukas was always the best fireside companion. Lukas Bondevik, the Swede's realized, has been his only constant friend, despite all they have been through. Nothing can change their relationship; it is set in the Norwegian's mind.

"I know, that I hate him," Lukas corrects. "Perhaps I once loved Christen, for just an hour or two, but my hate for him is stronger."

Berwald pulls his lover to his chest tightly; they both know who will be here with the next day. "My offer for you to speak with Christen tomorrow still stands."

The response is flat in tone. "I do not want to see him. Only Emil."

"I will ask after your brother then," but they both know it's useless.

"Thank you," and lips press at the skin just under his chin. Berwald knows how much Lukas loves his brother, but in his defiance Christen has kept the boy to lash out at them. Christen's never even cared very much for the younger Nords, but if it hurts Lukas and Berwald, then he will do it.

"And when he asks after you?" the Swede whispers. "What shall I say?"

"Tell him," his lover replies, venom in his voice, "that I hate him. That if he ever loved me he would give me my brother. That there is a reason why he is alone, and it is his doing. Tell him I never loved him, that I only ever loved you."

The larger nation sighs. "So I shall lie to him then?" He closes his eyes, resting his head against the pillow. Lukas hesitates beside him; at that he tenses.

"No, Berwald," the Norwegian whispers. "None of that was a lie."

Lukas is the easiest of his lovers, because in moments like these he is completely and utterly honest, and Berwald can respect that in a man.

* * *

><p>Today's meeting has gone relatively well. Since entering the room Christen and Berwald have sat in silence, staring at their feet. It's been roughly forty minutes. This is a new record for them not trying to kill each other.<p>

"We," the Dane begins because they both knew Berwald wasn't going to start this conversation, "we used to be so in love Berwald. We had everything."

The Swede grunts in agreement, a small smile on his lips. Christen looks up.

"I would have done anything for you Berwald. I would have give you my lands in a heartbeat, I would have given you my people if you'd asked me for it."

"But I was never the one who wanted control," he comments, leaning his chin on his hand, elbow propped up on the window sill beside him. "You were, Ketill."

Those eyes are defiant as they meet his gaze, Christen's breathing growing more rapid as the silence continues. "I wanted you so much Berwald."

"It was too much Christen, we loved too much. It wasn't meant to last. None of this lasts." The Dane's already shaking his head as he speaks, so Berwald continues in some vain attempt to make him finally understand. "We grew up Christen, we were baptized with holy water and unholy blood, we killed and saved and took and gave. Our love was too much Christen, it consumed. Our love always consumes, always destroys, like my love for Timo or your love for Lukas."

At that the head snaps up but Berwald is not afraid of the truth.

"You should understand, the resistance to being subjected to another. You should understand what that's like and yet you controlled Lukas, keep his brother, who has never done you harm, keep him from his-"

"And you?" Christen interjects angrily. "All you ever did was take and take. You took everything from me Oxenstierna. You took Timo when you left, and Lukas when Timo left. You took my heart and my virginity, as if they were nothing. Or do you not remember the way I do?"

When Christen looks up his anger seems to falter for a minute, and Berwald is only vaguely aware that it is because he is for once betraying his emotions on his face. All this confusion that's built up over the years, over his feelings and his relationships and the unions and disunions- he doesn't know how any nation can stand it. He should have died so many times; why is he still alive to feel this pain?

"I have never forgotten, not for one moment. You were mine, my Christen."

Silence returns to envelop them.

As the Dane goes to leave Berwald whispers, knowing already that it is useless, "Lukas's only wish is to see his brother. Allow him to see Emil?"

That face is ugly in its sneer, so unlike the beautiful man that the Swede fell in love with eight hundred years prior. "You tell Lukas," he says, each word seemingly painful, and it truly does break his heart to know that Christen is about to break down, "to burn in fucking hell, like the whore he is."

The door slams. Silence comes once more.

* * *

><p>"No thinking," Lukas whispers for the hundredth time against his skin. The fire cracks dangerously close beside them, Berwald's thrusting sporadic. They've been at it for hours now, over and over, because Berwald's guilt is all consuming and Lukas's anger cannot be extinguished. They're trying to forget what they've never been able to, their memories still sharp after centuries. So instead he reaches down between them, jerking the man beneath him off because at least Lukas's anger is normal. He screams in Swedish as he comes, pulling at Berwald's hair painfully. The Swede lays beside him as his breathing calms.<p>

"I'm sorry," Berwald says, not quite sure what he's apologizing for but feeling it's something he has to say.

"Don't be," the Norwegian whispers, kissing him deeply. It steals his breath, his mind going momentarily blank. But the memories always return quickly after Christen's visits, when he remembers the past. "We have time," Lukas assures him and Berwald nods. They have all the time in the world after all.

* * *

><p>Over the decades it's become easier to forget, to be, though the guilt is always there for Berwald, beneath the surface. He's pretty sure Lukas feels the same.<p>

"I had promised myself it'd be forever with Timo," Berwald finds himself admitting one night, swirling his vodka about in a tumbler. Beside him his lover lays on his stomach, flipping through his book.

"I promised Christen forever," the Norwegian agrees lazily.

Berwald snorts at that. "Did you ever intend to keep that promise?" Lukas pauses, watching his tumbler, before going back to the book.

"That night I had. The next morning I took it back." No wonder Christen hates them so much. "Did you tell Timo you wanted it to be forever?"

He sighs, relaxing into his mountain of pillows to think back on the more than five centuries he passed with the Finn. "I'm not sure. I always told him I would love him forever, but I never demanded that he love me in return."

"Because you're a good man," Lukas comments. He leans over the Swede, placing the book on the bedside table, before taking the tumbler and finishing the alcohol within. With the tumbler placed beside the book he lays under Berwald's arm, his eyes closed as he rests his head on the strong chest. In the firelight Lukas looks absolutely stunning like this, pale skin, blond hair, no pretensions. He is neither humble nor modest, but the Norwegian is quiet and understated.

"I'm not so sure about that Lukas," Berwald finally admits.

This time his lover snorts. "I said you are a good man, and so you are."

"Lukas?" A hum against his chest signals the man heard him. "Have you ever wondered why?" Another hum signals for him to go on. "Why us? Why are we different? Or what would have happened if we had been mortal? What lays beyond, that thing we will never see because our deaths are different?"

"You truly do think too much Oxenstierna." It lightens the mood, the sarcastic response, makes Berwald smile and laugh just a little.

"I am being serious though Lukas. Why are we here? Different from men?"

The body beneath his arm shifts until Lukas's head lays on his stomach, short hair tickling his navel. He looks down into those indigo eyes he loves so much, finding warmth and knowledge in them. Lukas has always brought him wisdom: their Christian religion, honest answers to questions, someone to speak with before great fireplaces. "You would like to know what I really think?"

The Swede strokes his hair, smoothing it. "Very much, beloved."

"I think," Lukas whispers, and his one hand ghosts up Berwald's chest, up his neck, to rest those fingers over his lips, the other hand lacing fingers together with Berwald's, "that I am here for your sake."

Several moments pass before the larger man frowns in confusion. "That's it?"

Lukas rolls his eyes. "Am I not enough Berwald?"

"I was expecting something more profound Lukas."

"Well," he sighs, smiling. It betrays his inner amusement. "I remember being alone, as a child. The family that found me said they had thought I would die, yet I lasted longer than any of them. They used to pray for so long for answers; I remember their faces though I can no longer recall all the names and places. And one day a man came speaking of a new god, the real God, and I thought that perhaps that was the answer, that was what I had been looking for, all along.

"I remember the battle, the one my king lost that found me living with you and Christen. I remember sneaking off to practice my religion, and Christen finding me, scolding me, before one day he relented and joined me. You left and he threw himself into our new religion, threw himself into our relationship. And so I thought that that was my purpose, to be some comfort to Christen.

"Everything the world has shown me revolves around two things, Berwald: love and hate. The people I remember I remember because I loved them or hated them. The nations I have met I divide into those I care mildly for and those I despise. In the end, I think…." A log cracks as Lukas closes his eyes, sighing deeply against Berwald's skin. "I think we are here to love and to hate. No more, no less. We remind humans that countries are people too, remind them of the people who populate those countries but also, so that they cannot forget, we are nations incarnate who can voice those concerns. Countries must be respected, must be treated like human beings, because we are humans though immortal. If we are not respected the world will destroy itself, forsaking love in favor of hate.

"That is what I think," Lukas finishes. "And that I am here for your sake."

Berwald lets the words sink in. He remembers his first adoptive mother and father, remembers his first adoptive siblings who then became his parents. He remembers the first woman he loved, remembers wanting nothing more than to marry her and have children and die with her. Berwald can still see that battle, the first time he ever saw Lukas the man had been tending to his wounds like he would during the Kalmar Union. In his mind he still recalls Timo being brought to him like the child he never had, but Berwald had not been ready to be a parent and so the Finnish nation had grown too quickly. He had tried so hard not to spoil him but perhaps the Swede had ruined him too, the way he had ruined Christen, breaking what had always been so fragile, so delicate. Maybe the others could not see that frail way about themselves but Berwald always could.

Each of his lovers he has loved in turn, each for different reasons. And this one here, in his arms, this one is both the easiest and hardest to love because Berwald has no fears for what his relationship with Lukas will bring. But he also knows, they both do, that their relationship will be severed too soon by changing political tensions. All the unions are. They cannot love forever; they are not so foolish anymore to think it.

Yet Lukas is laying in his bed by choice. Not because Berwald demanded it of him, for he never has of anyone, but because the Norwegian let himself in by choice. And maybe there is something in Berwald worth loving he thinks as he leans down to steal a kiss, then two. He spends so long thinking on why he has loved those he has loved, when perhaps the question is why had they loved him? What makes him special?

"Thinking," Lukas whispers against his lips as they roll, Berwald settling between his legs. He rubs their hips together; the Norwegian is already half-hard beneath him as a moan escapes Berwald. "Too much. You always. Do."

"You love it," the Swede manages before their lips meet once, twice, three times, four, then he loses count as hands move and they touch each other. Sometimes they are frenzied, something slow, but when they make love Berwald remembers just how much he cares for the man beneath him who can see right through him, easier than anyone else ever has. The second half of his being.

"Hmm," and as his lips fall to Lukas's neck his lover manages, "I love all of you." The muscle beneath his hands is smooth; they still go for their walks or sailing or the other things they did as young Vikings that shaped their lands and their bodies. As his lips trail lower, lower, finding the first nipple, Lukas's fingers thread in his hair and he moans. "Always loved you." His lips suck on the nipple, fingers playing with the other one, until it is pert and lickable and Berwald groans because this man turns him on so much. "Since that first day." His mouth drags its way to the other nipple, repeating the ministrations, as one Norwegian leg rubs against his cock. "Moment I saw you," and his lips trail lower, playing with the lines of Lukas's abdomen. He lavishes each muscle before turning to the next, hands massaging his thighs. "Laying in his bed." At last he comes to that light line of hair, following it down as he shifts to better position himself. "You were so beautiful, Björn." He doesn't hesitate, his mouth and hands working around the hard manhood beneath him. "I hated you for that, you stupid Swede."

"Lukas," he gasps, his breath hot against the base of his cock. "Lukas." When his gaze comes up they find the indigo eyes immediately, which are needy and lusty but also something else, that hidden something that his lover rarely shares.

"When you opened your eyes," and a hand reaches down to stroke the side of Berwald's face not pressed against his penis, "I found all the answers Berwald."

In the night Lukas screams as the Swede sucks, twisting and licking until his lover comes hot into his mouth. And when he is ready his slicked fingers wind the man up once more until Berwald can push in and ah he's so hot, so tight, so perfect. Lukas's hands claw at his back, holding their chests together as the smaller man cries. Berwald thrusts and hits that spot until the Norwegian screams out once more, his own chest tight with need and love and remembrance. The large man joins him, coming hard and longingly, rolling them back onto the bed and holding the other under his arm. The fire beings to die out.

"You were all the answers Berwald," Lukas whispers in the night.


	5. Peter Kirkland

Author's note: I aged Peter down a bit in this because for me, six is about the perfect age. Six the age of the kids I used to work with, and the oldest of my kids I babysit, and it's the age I really know the best. It's magical and Peter is wonderful and Berwald is my favorite. People don't give six year olds enough credit sometimes for how intelligent they are while still being innocent.

Also, not relevant in any way but I think you'll all appreciate this: I had thought about writing "The End" in Swedish at the end of this chapter because it has a real finality for me and I sometimes want to do that at the end of chaptered fics. I then discovered that the Swedish for the end of a movie like that is "slut". Stop it Sweden, you already have all my love! Probably not the best sentiment to start the only non-sexy chapter with, but I felt I would have failed you had I not informed you of that.

Don't forget reviews let me know what you want to see more of when I return from my vacation. Bonnes vacances à tout le monde and I hope you enjoyed all of this the way I did!

* * *

><p><strong>Five Loves for Berwald Oxenstierna<strong>

5. **Peter ****Kirkland**

The sun is warm on his skin, his shirt not quite connecting with the top of his pants. Berwald pillows his head with his large arms, a glare on his glasses from the sun as he watches his son.

His heart always beats loudest when he's with Peter, because the boy returns his love like no one else. Peter loves Berwald for Berwald, because he's his father and he cares for him and protects him, and because Peter is innocent and doesn't know better, doesn't know the cruelty his protector is capable of, doesn't know the things he's done. There are no bad memories, no ruined moments, no failed unions. There is only Peter, sweet and naïve and wanting so much to be a country.

"This big Papa!" Peter says, kneeling down beside him, holding his arms out wide to show his father.

"That's pretty big Peter," the Swede says lovingly.

"Bigger than all the other empires," the boy giggles, standing once more. He spins in the grass that perhaps Berwald should cut, but it tickles his skin and is soft under his boy's bare feet. "Bigger than the British Empire and the Russian Empire and the Roman Empire and all the empires!"

Berwald smirks. "Bigger than even my empire?" That throws the boy for a moment, who has to stop and think back on his history lessons. As he's grown his father has slowly introduced more and more Swedish things into the life they lead together: Swedish words, Swedish history, Swedish cuisine. Peter doesn't have a lot of people to practice with, and his English will always be best, but when he comes home to his father, to his real home, the micronation does his best to show what he knows of his father's country.

"Papa?" Berwald shifts as the boy lays beside him, wrapping one arm around his back. Peter's head is laid gently on his expansive chest, rising and falling in time with the larger nation's breathing. There's a pause before Peter finishes his thought. "Papa, what was your empire like?"

"Stormaktstiden," he whispers. When his boy's head pops up Berwald laughs. "It means the era of great power. We had so much land, so much power. We almost conquered all of the Baltic Sea." The nation smiles in memory of his family, of what the Oxenstiernas had become. They may have lost the empire as time slipped on, but history would always remember that family, his family. In the end their good fortunes came, the ones they had prayed to the old gods for centuries earlier, and Berwald, their precious prized member, well he's still here, their prayers to keep their immortal forever an Oxenstierna, forever strong and powerful, answered. That period wasn't the highest point in the Swedish nation's life; many were forgotten and abused and worse by officials in his name. Alliances had shifted with who was the most powerful that day; Berwald had had to forsake old friends he'd had for centuries in favor of new ones, replacing Christen with Bonnefoy, letting Lukas sway with the winds and watching Timo slip away.

But it had been power, and it had felt good at the time.

"Papa!" Peter whines. Looking at his son he could understand why the boy wanted to feel that power too. But Berwald also knows better, ruffling the soft blond hair before kissing it, pulling the boy onto his chest to hug him tightly.

"Don't ever grow up Peter," he whispers in broken English so that his boy understands every word. "Just stay like this, with me, forever Peter. Promise me."

The little Sealand-incarnate blinks, looking at his father, before seeming to understand something too complex for his young mind to voice. "Ok Papa." Then he kisses his father's forehead and Berwald holds him tight, his heart thumping in his chest. There's peace in the world, stability, and Peter to protect forever.

Somewhere a shutter clicks, the moment ending as Berwald opens his eyes to see Timo sitting beside him. Peter sits up, looking confused at his mother.

"You two looked so peaceful," Timo whispers, smiling, smoothing the boys hair that his father had messed up. He kisses his cheek.

"Mama?" The Finn nods. "Have you always loved Papa?"

The nice thing about Peter asking questions is that it means he's been paying attention in class, learning like a good boy. The hard thing about Peter asking questions is that it means Berwald has to find the nicest way possible to retell the darkest parts of Nordic history, things he's not proud to have done.

But for his wife it always seems to come easy, smiling at the boy with the most loving of eyes. Timo's gaze shifts, falling to Berwald, and his smile only grows before the Finnish nation leans down, kissing Berwald. The Swede closes his eyes, enjoying the chaste kiss more than he ever would have as a young Viking, before Timo lays under his other arm, Peter still sitting on his stomach.

"Yes Peter," Timo sighs, his head resting on his husband's shoulder, "I've always loved your father. It wasn't always easy, our relationship," and they both chuckle in that way that only time and their love has given them, "but I've always loved him. Always." Berwald kisses his wife's hair, watching Peter smile at them with two of his baby teeth missing, thinking of how they've grown over the years.

The Oxenstierna would be proud to see their Björn married and with his son, the true patriarch of the Steirnung ætt now.

* * *

><p>It's the monthly dinner, Peter happily yakking between his parents, each of his small hands in one of theirs. Christen throws Peter in the air when they enter, Emil and Timo exchanging soft words, and Berwald kisses Lukas's cheek.<p>

"Miss you," the Norwegian whispers before they break apart, looking to where Timo is now trying to break the Dane away from his son. Berwald can only grip those Danish hands tightly, guiding them back down to place Peter on the ground, before the waitress comes to show them to their table.

They normally sit the same way every dinner since it seems to cause the least amount of headaches: Peter placed between his parents, Timo speaking with Emil, Berwald with Lukas. Christen sits between the brothers joining in whatever conversation he fancies, making faces at his nephew from across the table.

"How has he been?" Berwald whispers to Lukas as they start dinner, this month American due to the world meeting being held in Washington. While the Swede would have liked to start right in on his steak, he knows Peter only eats what his father does and so resigns himself to the salad Timo passes him.

"Eh," and the Norwegian chances to look over at Christen who seems to be discussing sports with Emil. The Icelander just stares, having never been one for sports nor enthused conversation the way Christen is. "He's been Christen."

"But things have been alright?" Out of the corner of his eye Berwald watches Timo settle Peter in, the boy happily eating. His father steals a slice of cucumber from his plate, so his son does the same off the Swedish dish in retaliation.

"Oh yes," Lukas admits. "He's been very loving and considerate. I could almost love him, if I wanted to." Berwald understands what he's really saying. As if on cue Christen, grinning widely, kisses his boyfriend's cheek. Lukas does nothing to react, because it drives the Dane crazy when he doesn't.

At least, it looks like he does nothing at the kiss. While being equal in their standings as independent nations has helped Christen and Lukas's relationship, giving it a balance it always lacked before, it's only complicated Berwald and Lukas's relationship further. In fact as Christen takes one of Lukas's hands in both his, kissing it in some romantic gesture, the other hand is running up and down Berwald's strong thigh, fingers drumming a bit to rub against his manhood.

While his once-best friend is blissfully ignorant of it, living in his own happy world that the Swede envies him for having, Berwald's gaze falls to the side to see Timo watching him. His wife smiles sweetly, his eyes as loving as ever, but there's also an understanding there. The Finn knows what is going on, knows that Berwald and Lukas have been in love for centuries and that Lukas would snatch up the Swede in seconds were Timo to ever leave again. Knows Lukas is rubbing his husband's leg because he does this every time they go out for dinner, and so Berwald confesses each time to his wife what had happened.

Timo had told him that though it hurts to know Berwald has loved another, he trusts his husband, just as he always has, to do the right thing by their family. The Nordic nations have an intricate web of relationships, Berwald connected in so many ways to the others. But he is Timo's only connection, the only lover the young (by his standard's) nation has had, and so he smiles back over their son's head. He won't stop Lukas, but it drives the Norwegian crazy when he smiles at his wife, the same way it drives the Dane crazy that he doesn't react.

"Look Papa!" Peter proclaims as he finishes his salad; Berwald kisses him.

* * *

><p>Enough is enough, the Swedish man decides. When he was young he played outside with his siblings, his father and uncles and cousins. Sure the family isn't as big now, but Berwald doesn't care. Peter spends too much time playing these newfangled video games by his father's standard, and so the man finds himself squeezing through boxes in the garage until he finds the circuit breaker box, flipping the electricity in the house. Immediately Peter screams.<p>

"Papa! Papa! The electricity went out Papa!" Closing the garage door quickly Berwald tries to act as if he had been in his study.

"I noticed," the Swede concedes in his flat tone. Peter's used to his father's shifting displays of personality, from the cold and distant man in public with the flat voice to the happy, loving man who throws him in the air, spinning and chasing him in the backyard. "What should we do?"

"Make it come back!" the boy announces, following Berwald like Hanatamago does as he pulls open the blinds in the house to let in more light.

"If it's out, it's out Peter." They climb the stairs, where Timo is already waiting on the landing, fluffy dog in question napping outside Peter's door.

"Power went out?" He's brushing his hair, dressed in his suit. The Finnish nation has a meeting today while his husband has the day off.

Berwald grunts in response, kissing his wife who seems to take the hint.

"Shame, hope you two can find something to do until it comes back." Timo kisses the Swede once more, handing him the brush, before kissing their son and going down the stairs. "See you later boys!" he calls from the front door, Peter waving over the banister at the top of the stairs.

"So," Berwald begins, leaning on the banister as well and watching his son. "What shall we do while we wait?" He grins despite himself, quite proud of his little idea and not quite sure why he hadn't thought of it earlier.

* * *

><p>While he'd prefer not to have anything resembling war in the house Berwald did allow Peter's brothers to gift him with board games ranging from Battleship to Stratego for his last birthday. Chess, while still the Swede's favorite, is a bit too complex for the boy and Risk, his father's new favorite, is still out of the question.<p>

As they move from game to game on the kitchen table Berwald teaches his son the Swedish names of various pieces and moves, leading to small history lessons that involve more language lessons. The boy's French is actually pretty good; Berwald's always liked French, probably due to his years of strange friendship with the French nation. Peter's Germany Berwald gave up on years ago; he refuses to touch on what Russian Peter might have picked up from Alfred.

For lunch they eat in the backyard, playing cards in the grass. His boy's gotten better at both winning and taking his loses with grace; the Swede would have to thank Matthew for that next he saw him.

When the sun's set, a chill coming over the house, Berwald thinks about going to flip the electricity back on to get the heat going. He's almost made up his mind when Peter wraps his arms around him from behind, squeezing his father's stomach. "Papa?" the boy asks, his words muffled by his father's sweater.

"Yeah Peter?" His hands hold the boy's head behind him.

"Can you read to me in front of the fire?" Being a much better idea then turning the electricity back on, Berwald smiles.

"You pick the book, I'll get the fire going."

* * *

><p>He's not sure what time it is when Timo returns, though he knows it's late. As the front door creaks closed, the locks being placed, Berwald shakes his arm to read the watch. Eleven thirty; no wonder Peter had fallen asleep in his lap.<p>

"Hey," his wife whispers, approaching cautiously. Most of the Finn's things are laid on the couch, stepping out of his shoes before crawling up beside his husband. Berwald wraps an arm around his shoulders, kissing the man deeply. He holds him tight, the other arm around Peter with his head falling off his father's shoulder. Moving closer he feels one of Timo's arms come around his neck, the other going around their son to keep his head steady. The kiss grows almost desperate though the Swedish nation tries to control himself; Peter's only here for a few more days and then he'll have his alone time with Timo. As if reading his mind his Finnish wife moans against his lips, breaking the kiss and breathing deeply. His head is buried in the crook of Berwald's neck and shoulder, watching the sleeping micronation. "He looks so peaceful." His voice is hushed.

"We were reading." Berwald gestures to where the book had fallen.

"'Where The Wild Things Are'," Timo reads, smiling. "Classic Peter."

"Never grows old." He had meant the book but as the silence fills the room, only the sound of the fire crackling before them breaking through, Berwald thinks that maybe he had meant Peter too. He smooths the boy's hair, Timo leaning against his shoulder. Peter's grown the slowest, being the youngest.

"You want me to go turn the electricity back on now?"

"Just wait a little longer," Berwald pleads quietly. Timo nods knowingly.

"And what are you reading here?" His wife gestures to the book in his lap.

"Oh, you know, my biography," he whispers seriously which makes Timo giggle more as he picks up the book.

"This is a history of Sweden."

"Like I said, my biography."

Timo sighs, shaking his head. "I don't think a history book will have fully captured who you are as a person," and he finishes the sentence with a kiss.

Peter's breathing is raspy so his father tilts his head forward some more until it calms, holding his boy close and closing his eyes. His nose rests in the soft blond hair, sighing as he thinks about his son. Sometimes he wishes he'd always had Sealand, always had someone so sweet and young to protect, a little boy to depend on him. Then maybe things would have been different; not necessarily the history because Timo's right, the history doesn't capture who Berwald was or is. But maybe he would have done different things with the hand life had dealt him, made different decisions or friendships. Berwald feels best when he's protecting someone he loves, because while he was built to be a warrior he was also built to love and be loved.

In the firelight Timo's wedding ring glints and the Swede realizes he has had someone all along to protect. The Finn was only a child when he first met him; hell, Berwald himself was still a child, seventeen being nowhere near an adult. But he hadn't been ready to be a parent, he hadn't been able to protect Timo the way he can now protect Peter. His mind easily finds new activities to play with the boy who laughs easily and smiles widely at his father, sensing none of the intimidation nearly all others find. Timo had been for so long scared of him and while he too now knows the real Berwald, the one who was quiet in winter and playful in summer, it took a long time and several wars to reach this point.

Sighing he watches the man turn the book as he pages through, reading the notes Berwald had scribbled in the margin. He flips through the book backwards, going back in time, nodding his head knowingly at the passages about the last union between Sweden and Norway before reaching the eighteenth century, the year when Timo came to him on a night not unlike this one, ready to accept his love. Looking at the man who has grown so much since then Berwald smiles bittersweetly. "I love you," he whispers as one Finnish fingers runs over a note. His head comes up, smiling at his husband, before going back to the book.

The Kalmar Union is still hard to read about. Lukas and Christen are still together but the Norwegian was right, it was always unequal. So many things they've done that Berwald now regrets, Christen feeling the same. And before the union, when what is now Sweden and Denmark defeated Norway, when they still worshipped the old gods, Berwald can only picture small moments. He remembers the words in that old language, remembers the Danish voice because it's still there for him to hear, but it's hard to see all the faces. There's Christen, no Ketill's, bright face, and there's the first time he ever saw Lukas. There's Timo being brought to him in the early morning during the crusades and there's Emil being brought to them for the very first time by his brother. A thousand years; how much the world has changed in a thousand years.

Berwald's about ready to bring Peter upstairs to let him sleep in his own bed when Timo reaches the first chapter, the page falling open to perhaps the earliest thing Berwald can remember clearly. On the one side there's a woodcut engraving of the sacred grove at Uppsala; a post-it note is on the page with Berwald's corrected drawing that he'd have to slip to some official to have put in the next edition of the book. On the other page is general guessing as to what life in Birka and Hovgården had been like. The Swedish nation's still yet to decide what notes to make in the margin beyond writing a single word.

"Urd?" Timo reads; his husband's body freezes. "Urd," he repeats more confidently, swallowing. Big violet eyes meet his sea-green ones, and Timo nods in understanding. "Was Urd the first one you ever loved?" Something akin to guilt fills Berwald, who can't figure out why he wants to apologize for loving a woman four centuries before he met the nation now called Finland. "Be," Timo whispers, and he nods for his wife to go on. "Be, I know you've loved others. That's ok, you- your heart is meant to love. And you're good at it. And I meant it when I said I trusted you. I know when you told me forever you meant it, and maybe you won't always be able to keep that promise but…." His words trail off as he leans into his husband's shoulder. Under one arm Berwald holds Peter, the other Timo. In the crackling fire he can remember evenings spent reading with Lukas, or nights sleeping before the fire with Christen. He remembers speaking with his Unna on cold winter nights in his first house. It was always borrowed time.

"But what?" the Swede asks, his chest growing tight waiting for the end of the thought. Timo's light breathing serves as his answer, and looking down he smiles at the sleeping Finn. Berwald finishes his wife's sentence with, "But nothing," before closing his eyes, trying to remember this moment for the next thousand years, his heart beating quickly in his chest.


End file.
